


just close your eyes

by aspentree



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, also?? greek mythology nod, i think i accidentally did a crossover of a sort, im a fucking nerd lmao, iris is that you, probably the shortest thing ive ever written??, squint and youll see it, what the fcuk, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 18:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12438786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspentree/pseuds/aspentree
Summary: He’s fallen in love with a painting.——————a shitty quickwrite thats unedited crap but i wanted to share it anyway





	just close your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> love you pineleaf <3

Sunlight streams through copper colored hair and streaks dappled light through the amber leaves of autumn trees, the cool crisp air cutting through him. Eyes the color of honey, smiling at him, crescent-shaped dimples displayed proudly on pale, freckled cheeks. A faun, playing in the forest, drinking in supple sunlight and bucking freely, feeling the world under his hooves.

Shiro’s eyes are dazzled and he’s breathless, watching this beautiful young man walk his yappy Pomeranian through the painted leaves of fall, paintbrush poised in between his fingers. Orange and yellow and white and blue paint stains his hands and he just stares, stares to pretend his work is real, like it could pop out at any minute. He could feel the soft hair of this young man between his fingers, kissing him, nudging the cute little dog with his toes, murmuring secrets under his breath; mine, mine, mine.

He’s fallen in love with a painting.

At the sink now, watching the colors bleed into the drain, warm water making his hands tingle. Tufts of white hair kiss his temples, sugar and cream mixed in bitter and lonely. And he’s never felt this happy. Or this lonely.

It takes months for him to work up the courage to display his work in a nearby art gallery, and suddenly copies of it are being sold everywhere, in books and in magazines and soon even a museum, the one that holds the original.

He’s looking at it again, two years later after the fame, cold winter air coloring his cheeks pink as his hands reach out to press against the plexiglass, making a foggy imprint of something recently gone. He feels a light, fleeting touch on his shoulder, and he nearly brushes it off. Shiro turns.

It’s him.

Copper hair and crescent dimples, pulled up into a beanie, cloud-like bangs settling into those honeycomb eyes, and it’s almost like the first time Shiro’s painted him, known the planes of his face by heart, and his hands tingle like he’s holding the black brush in his hands.

“You painted this?” Says the voice of an angel, the sound of bells and sunlight and sugar. It sinks into his skin, making him shudder from the crown of his head to his toes.

“Y-Yes,” he chokes out, suddenly emotional in the presence of the boy in the painting, the faun and his dog, prancing happily in the woods, freshly-fallen leaves crunching delightfully like the gentle crackle of well-burnt wood in a blazing fireplace. _Remind me of Christmas,_ Shiro begs silently, _remind me of happier times when the only feeling I felt was the brush between my fingers and the happiness bursting through my chest._

Moments pass, but it feels like an eternity, cheeks flushed and eyes twinkling with unshed tears.

“I missed you,” the stranger murmurs, and then colors explode behind Shiro’s eyelids as they kiss, for the first time in what feels like forever, but never happened.

“Me, too,” he says, tears sliding down his cheeks, and Matt kisses them away.

“Just close your eyes,” he whispers in the space between, “It’ll be alright.”


End file.
